In the luminous caverns of Aethelgard, the anticipation was palpable. An unusual silence reigned in the great agricultural halls lit by the glow of bioluminescent fungi. Near the geothermal generators, the constant hum seemed louder, more oppressive. Children were kept inside the dwellings, and the faces of the adults, weathered by centuries of subterranean labor, were tense.
The message had arrived.
It had torn through the static of internal communications, a clear and foreign voice speaking an archaic but perfectly understandable Gothic. It said it was not hostile. It said it came from the stars. It said that humanity had survived, that it had gathered.
And it asked for permission to speak.
In the Hall of the Council of Elders, carved into rock salt, the air was thick.
"From the stars..." murmured Elder Kael, his gnarled hands clenched on his silicon staff. "Our legends spoke of it. The first comers from the sky before the Wrath. But after a thousand years..."
"It might be a trap," growled Bor, the chief of miners, a scar crossing his face, gouged by a rock splinter. "Xenos using an old frequency to lure us to the surface and exterminate us."
"Their ship..." whispered Lyra, the chief archivist. "The surface sensors caught its shadow. It is larger than our largest cavern. If they wanted to destroy us, they would have done so already."
The debate raged, fueled by fear and a hope so ancient it was painful.
Suddenly, a young communications technician, a woman named Elara, stood up, her face pale but determined.
"Elders... they answered one of our questions. The one about the Great Migration. Their version... it matches the sacred archives. Details only the first colonists would have known."
A stunned silence greeted her words.
"How is that possible?" asked Kael, incredulous.
"They are not xenos," Elara breathed. "They say... they say they are distant relatives. That humanity did not only survive here. That it flourished elsewhere."
The news spread like wildfire through the underground networks. The anticipation transformed into a stifling mix of terror and wonder. Relatives. Not gods, not demons. Family, lost for millennia.
The Council, after hours of heated deliberation, made its decision. A message was sent, short, hesitant.
« Strangers from the stars. We are listening. Speak. »
When the voice of Commander Julius Braveheart sounded again, it was calm, respectful. It did not speak of conquest or technology. It spoke of home. Of reunion. It offered medical data to fight the genetic degeneration caused by centuries of underground life. It offered schematics for more effective radiation filters.
It offered help. With no apparent conditions.
On Aethelgard, for the first time in generations, tears flowed on faces that had known only the hardness of stone and the struggle for survival. It was not a trap. It was a hand extended.
The humans of the surface and those of the depths had found each other again. And in this merciless universe, this simple connection was more precious and more dangerous than any weapon.